Can't Feel Nothing At All
by flailingmuse
Summary: Sherlock discovers Zydrate. Mildly a crossover but not enough of Repo! to be a proper one. Hints at slash are all intentional. T for drug use.


**Can't Feel Nothing At All** – Sherlock/Repo! Crossover

**Summary:** Sherlock discovers Zydrate. John worries. J/S pre-slash

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><p>He's not sure how he got there, despite the constantly updating map of the city in his head. He thinks later that maybe he lost himself on purpose, his subconscious creating the smallest of puzzles for him to solve, a tiny way to ease the endless itching inside his head.<p>

Now, though, he's half frozen inside his coat, fingers numb in icy gloves that creak when he moves his hands. Winter nights in London are unforgiving on foolish – idiotic, he hears John say in the back of his head – detectives wandering the streets. He suppresses a shiver, tightens his scarf and quickens his pace. Home is so close.

The vial and the needle are a dead weight in his shirt pocket and they shouldn't be, he knows how much they weigh and it's not enough for them to be pulling him over. He wants to reach inside his coat and brush his fingers over them, check they're still there even though the logical part of his mind tells him that of course they are, where could they have gone, who could have taken them without him noticing?

He remembers the vivid blue of the liquid he carries and a joyless smile of anticipation flickers of his winter whitened lips.

Zydrate.

The word had slid from the dealers mouth. Those black painted lips in the stained white face caressing the word like a lovers hand. The moment Sherlock had walked into his dead-end alley he'd known what the detective wanted and that – though he was loathe to admit it, even to himself – frightened the detective. This man, this dealer, had seen the desire in Sherlock's eyes the moment their equally dark gazes had met.

For all his quick-thinking and split second discoveries about people he's only just met, Sherlock couldn't work out much about him. Tall, pale, lank hair and shifty eyes. Obviously a dealer but too alert to have been sampling what he sold.

Numbness. That was what he'd said, producing a small glass vial from somewhere within his ratty coat. A sly smile quirked his features, showing small lines in the thick white make-up pasted on his face. "That's what you want, isn't it? To feel absolutely nothing at all."

And Sherlock, mind twisting and writhing in on itself with the boredom, the lack of stimulation and an endless disgust at the world, said more desperately than he would have liked;

"Yes."

The money way out of his wallet and in his hand before he really realised that he was doing it. He switched crisp notes for electric blue liquid glinting in the lamplight. A sinister promise of release. The hypodermic quickly followed, fitting easily into his palm. It was almost frightening how right it felt to have one there again.

Deal done, the white faced man smirked and slid away into the shadows. It was a minute or two before Sherlock moved.

The needle felt unbearably familiar in his hand and it shouldn't, because once he'd stopped – really stopped – he'd deleted the whole thing. Now it was returning, faint memories resurfacing from wherever they went when he removed them from his hard-drive. Nights where the kiss of a hypodermic were all that could quell the raging tide of thought. Entire days lost to the embrace of whatever he could find to make the boredom more bearable, be that cocaine or something he managed to lift from various hospitals and drugs busts evidence lockers over the years.

He'd left the alley as fast as possible.

Now he has purpose. The way home appears in his head as it always does, the street names rising to tell him the directions he needs. His feet cover the distance, any thought of waiting for a cab erased by the unnerving want in his chest. He doesn't have the time to wait for others tonight.

221B is empty. It takes merely a moment to remember why. John had given up with him, thrown up his hands in defeat at the fresh bullet holes in the wall, called Sarah and gone out somewhere. Sherlock hadn't even been interested enough to work out where they were going.

He flings off his coat as he enters, quickly unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. There's a curling nicotine patch still clinging grimly on, its resources long spent. He rips it off, ignoring the slight pain as it pulls free of his skin. The needle and the vial are in his hands now, and he's collapsing onto the sofa with them. Before he knows it he's unscrewing the top of the vial.

Absently he notices that his hands are shaking as he fills the hypodermic. The blue delight swirls nicely as it flows. He knows this is dangerous, knows he shouldn't do it but it's like the time with the cabbie. He has to know. Has to see if this works, has to try anything, _anything_ to stop his mind from eating him alive. It's happened before and the results aren't something he has any desire to repeat.

Anticipation fills him, like in the old, dark days. He lays back, needle full and ready. The vial slips from his fingers to lie empty on the floor. He stares at the ceiling and presses the tip of the needle against his arm.

It slides in easily – old habits die hard, or so he's heard. In seconds he swears he can feel that electric blue crawling through his veins, burning them to numbness. Tendrils of it ensnare his brain, arresting its endless, torturous motion. As the Zydrate embraces him he relishes in the numbness. The mind that tears itself apart is finally still. He can feel nothing.

Things have not gone well on the date. It's impromptu and while Sarah is surprised and slightly flattered at first she soon sees what it really is. What she really is to this John Watson she's sure she used to find attractive. She's an excuse, an escape, a distraction from his insufferable, childish flatmate. This realisation makes her more than a little peeved and his unfocused attitude makes her call the whole thing to an end.

"I can't do this," she declares, standing up roughly. "I'm not going to be here just for you to get away from him when you want to and to spite him. Thanks for dinner, but I'm done."

She leaves. John pays an overly sympathetic waiter the bill and trudges off home. The night is cold so he doesn't let his steps linger long, but he's still slow in getting there.

The moment he reaches the top of the stairs he knows something's off. The door is slightly ajar and he knows he slammed it shut. Whilst he might not be as observant as his friend, he knows this means someone's been in or out or both. He gets closer and can see Sherlock's coat crumpled on the floor. He hurries up the final few stairs.

The detective should have heard him by now. He should have returned home to gunshots, curses at experiments, calls for tea and callous deductions about how badly his date has gone.

All that's there is silence.

John calls Sherlock's name as he enters, worry clearly staining his voice. He doesn't care if Sherlock hears it, berates him for emotions. He needs to know if his friend is alright. There's no reply. For a moment John wonders if he's just sleeping, if the sleep deprivation has finally caught up to him and he's passed out on the kitchen floor. It's something he'd do, after all. The thought is soon discarded. He doesn't sleep until he passes out and John knows he wasn't close enough to that point for it to have happened yet. One advantage of living with the madman – he knew almost everything there was to know about his habits.

John finally pushes open the door and enters the flat. The first thing he sees is a pair of shoe covered feet dangling over the end of the sofa. He can't help it – he rushes over. His eyes, though not as sharp as Sherlock's, soon tell him what has happened.

An empty vial of something on the floor. A hypodermic needle dangling from limp, pale fingers. A red mark on a cold white arm. A slack mouth and unfocused eyes that stare at the ceiling.

"Oh you bloody idiot," John curses, "What have you gone and done now?"

He takes the needle and picks up the vial, dumping them quickly in the bin. He hurries back to Sherlock. The doctor in him takes over, checking the man's pulse, temperature, breathing. His eyes are hugely dilated and he's breathing far too slowly. His heart pulses strong but slow too, and his temperature is nothing short of freezing. John quickly gets a blanket and slings it over Sherlock's body. How is he not shivering from the cold?

"So…numb…" the words are so faint he wonders if he's imagined them. But he saw Sherlock's lips move.

"What?" he crouches by Sherlock's head, "What are you talking about?"

"Glorious," is the only reply he gets. John runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

"I thought you'd stopped all of this," he mutters. "What were you thinking?"

He doesn't get a reply, didn't really expect one. What he does next he can never explain, even in hindsight. He gets up, lifts Sherlock's head and slides onto the sofa underneath it. He lets go, lets the detective rest his head on his knees. He tries to rationalise, say he needs to make sure Sherlock doesn't asphyxiate in the night. He knows it's not true but doesn't entirely know what is true.

Sherlock stares through him and somehow that hurts. He's so used to the detective's piercing gaze, grey eyed and in control, seeing everything. This…this is not Sherlock. This is some creature that has come home and crawled into his body to replace him.

At some point John falls asleep and the next thing he knows its morning and pale winter light is streaming in through the gaps in the curtains. He looks down. Sherlock's eyes are closed, the lids looking purple. John sighs, yawns, stretches. The detective stirs. His eyes snap open and they are once again strong, seeing straight into John's head. Johns not sure but he thinks he sees a hint of red on Sherlock's ears as he realises where his is. When he speaks his voice is as curt as ever.

"Why is my head in your lap?"

"Because you're an idiot who tried to solve his problems with drugs. Again." John says. He tries not to sound angry or worried or scared but he can't. He's seen people lose themselves to drugs – and alcohol, the part of his mind that still cares for Harry whispers – to not feel anything. Even if this is Sherlock Holmes, who leaves heads in the fridge.

"Oh."

For once Sherlock has nothing to say.

"Very much so. It's more than a bit not good, you know, to do that," John doesn't notice he's doing it but his fingers are twining into a loose section of Sherlock's hair. Sherlock says nothing, too busy being surprised that he enjoys the sensation. He looks down at the detectives face. "What goes on in that head of yours?"

"Sometimes I don't know myself," Sherlock mutters. Then he says, louder, "It was glorious, John. Absolutely glorious."

"What was?"

"The numbness. I couldn't think at all. It was a fog in my brain, deleting everything for as long as it lasted." He closes his eyes, faintly smiles at the memory. "Glorious."

He's not prepared for the slap across his face. His eyes flash open, immediately angry, demanding an explanation without having to say a word.

"Tripping the hell out on god knows what is not glorious," John snaps. "It's dangerous. What am I—the police supposed to do if you decide to kill yourself for the sake of boredom?"

Sherlock doesn't miss the cut off sentence. He wonders why John thought of himself first.

"I'd never do that," he says, careful to keep his tone bored. "I always know what I'm doing."

"No, you don't, Sherlock. You think you do, but you don't. You can't where something like this is concerned. What if you'd injected yourself with food dye, hm? Or rat poison? Even you can't know what's in some unlabelled vial."

He's right and Sherlock hates it. He doesn't say anything, just turns his head to glare at the sofa. John sighs.

"Sorry. Shouldn't have snapped. But…oh, for Christ's sake I'm your friend, I can say this – you worried me, Sherlock. Honestly worried me."

This gives the great detective pause. No-one's worried about him for a long time. Well, mother does according to Mycroft but it's been years since he's trusted a word that escapes his brother's mouth.

"Really?" he manages to ask.

"Of course 'really'," John sounds surprised he even has to confirm. "You looked half dead. It was bloody terrifying, that's what it was. Don't do it again."

"You know I can't promise that," is Sherlock's unusually quiet reply. John sighs and absently strokes a careful finger down Sherlock's cheek.

"I know. Just…try and resist it a little more. Don't let me have to come home one night and find you dead on the sofa," he chuckles, "It's bad enough have body _parts_ in the fridge, let alone a whole one in the middle of our living room."

Sherlock manages to twitch a smile back.

"I'll try."

"Sherlock…" John starts. He shakes his head. "Actually no, forget it."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. John sighs.

"Fine. I was just going to say that if you want to talk, I'm here. Much as I might hate it sometimes I am here, and I will listen, even if you are a mad idiot most of the time," he adds in a mutter, "I'll be here a damn sight more after last night."

"She left you," it's easy to work out. It's in the sadness in his eyes, the line of his mouth, the uncharacteristically caring attitude towards the flatmate he professes to not be able to stand. John nods.

"Yeah. And of course it's all your fault, you know? She didn't want to be an escape from your sulks. She's right, and I'm surprised she held out this long. Most people don't want second dates when their first nearly kills them."

Sherlock wonders what the flash in his chest is when he works out that they've split. It's gone as soon as it arrives and he puts it down to aftershocks of the drug.

"Who did you get it from, by the way?" John asks. He finally lifts Sherlock's head from his knees and stands. The arm of the sofa feels wrong compared to it. Sherlock ignores that feeling too.

"I don't know," he says. "Some dealer, easily recognisable if I wanted to catch him. Back-alley kind of guy, grubby and uninteresting."

"What did he give you?"

"Zydrate," Sherlock's lips caress the word the same way the dealers had. "Numbness in a little glass vial. Electric blue peace of mind."

"Never heard of if," says John. "Tea?"

"Please."

Sherlock listens to John clatter about in the kitchen. He thinks that maybe he should forget about the drug to please his flatmate. No, his friend. He introduces him as such, he should refer to him that way in his head too. It's just odd, the idea of having someone to call by the term. He shifts his thoughts away from that area. The drug…already he can feel the itch in his mind starting up again and he knows he needs a distraction. If something doesn't come up soon and John can't find a way to occupy him, he knows he'll be back out at midnight, hunting for the dealer and his blue promises.

As if in answer to his prayers the phone on the coffee table buzzes. Sherlock pounces on it greedily, not pausing to wonder whether his joy at murder might be a little inappropriate.

_Locked room case. Your favourite. Also mutilation, bring John. Anderson's here, don't get sarky. GL_

Sherlock grins.

"Forget the tea John, the game is back on."

John emerges from the kitchen, jacket already over his shoulders. He tries not to look excited or relieved but Sherlock can see it in the flash of his eyes. The two of them flee down the stairs, the word 'Taxi!' spilling from Sherlock's lips the moment the door shuts behind them. The day might be cold and dull but the case will be anything but. Sherlock's mind is already racing, preparing itself to find the answers.

Zydrate's kiss is forgotten, all there is now is the game, the case, the hunt. He flings himself into the taxi, John following. He doesn't know why the doctor still chooses to follow him but, in that moment, he's glad to have him around. He never thought he'd be happy to have a link to the normal world but waking up from that drug induced stupor he'd found that he was somewhat pleased to have a caring face looking down at him.

There's no time for that though. He fights to keep the smile from his face as they speed off to the crime scene. _The game_, he thinks, _will do better than any numbness._

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><p><strong>Slash, people, I'm getting there. Still warming up to the characters a bit, because for the life of me I'm not going to write self-indulgent M rated slash for the sake of it. <strong>

**Reasoning behind this one is that Sherlock's always looking for a way not to be bored, and I like the idea that it's because his mind is like an ouroboros, eating itself constantly. Zydrate numbs everything ergo Sherlock taking Zydrate would shut his mind up and stop the boredom. Yeah, I don't know how much sense I'm making. Reviews are love!  
><strong>


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